


Terms of Control, slash revision.

by neichan



Category: Terms of Control - Don Pendleton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-02
Updated: 2005-11-02
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: This is the Don Pendleton novel, only Slashed. It is a Men's Action, Shoot 'em Up, commando type novel. It is about terrorism and counter terrorism. It has guns and bombs and evil thoughts and deeds. I have added more emotion and a concentration on relationships that are a figment of my acitve and slashy imagination. I intend to change the novel until it is barely recognizable. And I hope some of you will enjoy the ride. Just remember...it is not my original idea. The characters are not mine, and I am going to make them do things their creator never imagined.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Disclaimer: This is a rewrite of Don Pendelton's Stony Man novel, Terms of Control. It is not an original concept. I took the story and added slash and descriptive bits. The novel is not mine!

 

 

Pacific Ocean

 

The sailor held the old shotgun gingerly, not comfortable with having it in his possession or using it, if need be. He’d fired a weapon only twice in his life, both times earlier in the day. His captain said it was all the training he would need. The young man was not at all sure he agreed. The sailor was twenty-two years old and this was only his second Asia to America voyage; he didn’t feel as if he had been adequately trained for anything, let alone combat. He was a sailor, not a soldier. And his lack of comfort with the old weapon in his hands showed that more clearly than anything.

 

"Don’t worry about it," the captain had said, not having much luck convincing the young man. "With this kind of gun you don’t even need to aim, just point it in the general direction of the bad guy and pull the trigger." He pantomimed the spray of shot that would come out of the barrel. The sailor felt sick. He envisioned that spray striking a living body, and the garish destruction it would leave behind.

 

The young sailor, a merchant marine named Shin Un-sok, hoped he never had to fire the thing at all. In fact he had been telling himself over and over that there was no need for all this heightened security. The Eun-Pyo wasn’t an oil tanker, just a container ship. No one would want anything the ship was carrying badly enough to accost her on the high seas. Only the oil tankers were in danger, right? The terrible weapon and the mayhem it could do would not be necessary, he would not have to fire. Ever. Or at least he prayed he would not. There was no reason his ship needed defending. None at all.

 

She was an elegant sea beast, even fully laden, or so Shin Un-sok had thought during his enthusiastic early days as a merchant sailor. The ship’s compact, powerful diesels could propel her on calm seas at twenty knots, so she could make brisk work of the Seoul to Seattle run. She had proved a good ship to work for him. The food had been far better quality than at home, and the company of his ship mates good. All in all he had been happy working on the container ship.

 

Shin’s found he was no longer sure if he was cut out for this kind of work. The ship had taken on a sinister mien, becoming a prison on the water he could not escape, and suddenly Shin was wondering if he should have pursed his dream of being a sailor. Factory jobs were boring, but safer. He was alarmed by the possibilities that occurred to him, now that he had been given a gun and told he had to defend her. And from what? An unknown, faceless enemy. An enemy who was surely more experienced then he when it came to violence.

 

Something clanked and Shin jumped, cursing under his breath. His pulse trip-hammered in his chest, so loudly it obscured his normally sensitive hearing. He strained to pick up any other new sounds. What was that? He was well aware that yesterday, the sound would not have bothered him at all. Tonight was a far different story.

 

He felt his heart rise to clog his throat. He moved into the shadows alongside the wall of containers, taking a scant few seconds to calm his heart, pressing up tight to the chilled metal wall of the massive container, then he moved cautiously to the starboard side of the ship. He tried to place his feet noiselessly with each step. The single clank came from over there. He stole with hands shaking, in the direction of the abrupt sound. It was not repeated.

 

Now that he thought about it, it had sounded like the heavy chain that was used to lash down the huge tarpaulins sometimes needed to cover damaged containers. None of the tarps were being used on this trip, the containers staying blessedly intact, so maybe one of the chains had tumbled off a tarp roll, striking the deck as it fell. It was a weak explanation, but it relieved Shin. His trembling hands loosened, fractionally, the death grip he had on the stock and barrel of the rusty weapon he carried. His fingers felt stiff and arthritic from the vice grip he'd used.

 

He drew in another nearly soundless breath that shuddered through his lungs. Anyway there was nothing to worry about, he scolded himself. This ship carried consumer goods, not oil. The ships that were in danger were carried oil. He swallowed, tried to breathe slowly and evenly. Tried to hear past the unabated pounding in his ears, the rasp of his breath. Tried to ignore his trembling knees.

 

Shin was trying to convince himself that there was no reason for his concern. The Eun-Pyo was filled with inexpensive electronic appliances. Its value was a pathetic fraction of a supertanker cargo. There would be no reason for anyone to come after this ship. There were plenty of such electronics to be had if one wanted to steal them. They crowded warehouses in every port. And warehouses were far easier pickings than ships on the high seas. Far less costly to steal a cargo in port.

 

Then at the end of a narrow passage between the containers, a stranger stepped into view. His face was blackened with black, grey and green paint, and Shin knew instantly that he didn’t belong on the vessel. The faint glitter of reptilian eyes was all that was needed to send an icy chill crawling up his spine. He knew that he could do little to stop the man if it came down to it. The best thing would be to steal away, and get the warning out. He inched backwards, sticking as closely to the shadows as he could. Until he heard the faintest scrape behind him. Then he knew he should already have raised his pitiful weapon and shot at the first man. Now, it really was too late to flee.

 

Shin turned to find another figure blocking the way behind him. The figure ran his boot toe across the deck, repeating the scraping sound deliberately, his dark eye measured the quaking sailor hungrily, looking for something in the young man's face. That puzzled Shin, even as the terror rose in his chest. Why did the man reveal himself? What was the point? Why did he want Shin to know he was there? Then the answer came to him. The man wanted him to show fear. He wanted to see it. Shin shook harder. The man smiled.

 

The sailor didn’t know why this was happening and he realized his understanding it didn’t matter. Not to him, and not to the invaders. I’m a dead man, he told himself, as the second man's smile faded. It was the first thing he had said to himself all night that was right. He had known that something was not right from the moment he took the shotgun. From the first time he tried to shoot the gun. He had known. Now he was going to die. He knew it. He would never again see Korea, or his family. He would never have children of his own, or a wife.

 

He might as well go out shooting. He brought the shotgun barrel to his shoulder just like the captain had taught him to do. That was as far as he got, the muzzle not even clearing waist high. There was a sharp cough that seemed to come in stereo from behind and in front of him, and his finger stopped working before he could yank the shotgun’s trigger. Then his arm wouldn’t hold the weapon any longer, then his legs wouldn’t hold him up. As the darkness became complete, Shin thought philosophically that his worries were over.

 

His body hit the deck with a muted thump, lost amidst the stacks of massive containers. And he was gone.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Sitting hunched ungracefully over his panel, Sang Bin felt the cold barrel of a weapon touch the back of his skull and his hands froze above the bridge controls. He was one of the few on board the Eun-Pyo who recognized the touch of a gun barrel, having felt the same touch during his time as a soldier. The unease of the night coalesced into hard reality.

 

"Put them up." The cool voice ordered from behind. Almost casually.

 

The intruder spoke English and sounded like an American, using a slang phrase Sang recognized from old American western movies. Sang raised his hands, which were abruptly cold and clammy despite the oppressive heat of the tropical night. He had no luck stopping the shudders that raced through his body, making it hard to keep his arms up. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain still. Squelching the automatic response that bade him to face his new visitor.

 

"One of your guards is dead," the man behind announced emotionlessly. Other than his voice there was no sound to reveal his presence. No creak of leather or shift of boot on the ship's deck. Not even the sound of his breathing. Sang felt unease ripple up the back of his neck, concentrating around the barrel of the weapon pressed there. He wanted very badly to push it away. To rub his skin. Then the words sank in.

 

Sang started to turn his head in surprise and distress at the comment, but then caught the window reflection of a second intruder, also aiming a handgun at his back. Another silent man. Once again he froze the urge to turn and look at the man talking to him, knowing that if he completed the turn, he'd be shot by the wicked, short barreled black gun the man held so comfortably. It was more than obvious how comfortable he felt with the gun, and the idea of killing.

 

"Move again and you will be dead, too." The first man dressed in black growled at him. Sang didn't move, he barely breathed. He almost vomited.

 

"What do you want?" He was ashamed at how his voice quavered. He licked his dry lips. Tried to clear his throat, but couldn't get the thickness to move.

 

"How many men on guard?" The man asked. His voice was low, it would not carry out beyond the small enclosure they were in. No one would hear, unless they were right outside the door. And Sang had no hope of that happening tonight.

 

"Two on deck aft of the bridge castel and one in the rear. Plus myself." Sang babbled, he was glad he was fluent in English. This wasn’t the time to be misunderstood. He did not want to anger either of the gun toting men who stood behind him. He wanted to live through this night and into the next. He would give the men anything they wanted to ensure that.

 

"The rest of the crew?" The crisp, cold voice questioned, before he had finished answering the first question. Sang calculated frantically, trying to recall who was supposed to be where. He wanted badly to give the right answer.

 

"All in their quarters as far as I know." He managed to say. His bladder was trying to alternately clench and relax. To void, or to hold the liquid. His body could not decide.

 

"Engine room staff?" The next question was fired at him before he could work on his nerves.

 

"Our engines do not need round the clock maintenance, but there is probably some crew in the engineering room." Sang told him helpfully, needing to let the man know he would cooperate. That he was no threat.

 

"Total crew?" The man growled, letting a tone of impatience crawl into his clipped words.

 

"Sixteen. Fifteen if you murdered one of my men." Sang said, then winced, fearing he may have antagonized the man with the gun.

 

"Make it fourteen." Said the unseen American before Sang’s head exploded. Sang was still trying to figure out the words when the bullet took him.

 

The American watched the dead Korean collapse to the floor. The window dripped blood and gore, but hadn’t shattered because the gun had been aimed up to imbed the round into the ceiling after performing it’s function. Neat and efficient. Except for the widening pool of blood spreading across the floor. All according to plan. He smiled his chilly smile.

 

The American pulled his radio to his mouth and spoke quietly. "Bridge is secure. We’ve got a second guard on duty up front and one in back." He did not need to wait to hear the prompt reply.

 

"Team two here. The aft guard is taken care of." There was no emotion, not even satisfaction in the voice. Doing his job. Nothing more. The leader listened for the next report to come less than a second later.

 

"Team three here. We’ll find the second guard up here. He’ll probably be at the ship light mast in the front." Light soothed men who were not trained to recognize the dark as their friend. In the dark a man could hide. In the dark...no one could see you. In the dark you were less of a target. Under the light...the sailor would not stand a chance. He would be dead before he knew he had been found.

 

The American didn’t reply to these announcements, but said, "Team four, engine room occupancy is unknown." He had no worry his men would find trouble taking care of whatever number they found there.

 

"Team four here. We’ll deal with it." And he knew that they would. He lowered his radio.

 

The American stepped to a communications console and pulled open the access panel underneath the controls, quickly snipping out six inch lengths from what he knew were vital connecting cables. The radio was now unusable. Not that any member of the crew was going to live long enough to get up here to send a Mayday, but it was insurance. It never hurt to make sure. And some day, some where it might prove crucial to a mission's success. So, he took the precaution, just as he did each and every time. He refused to develop bad habits through carelessness.

 

The American’s companion stood easily in the open doorway, keeping an eye out in case other crew members unexpectedly strolled onto the scene. He said nothing.

 

"Only one engineer in the engine room," the leader's radio announced quietly. "He’s out of the picture. We’re ready to take out the power." Yes. Quick and efficient. But praise could wait for later.

 

"Go ahead." The American said. Not letting his satisfaction color his voice.

 

The bridge lights died, leaving the room black. The floodlights that illuminated the deck and it’s acres of containers were gone, as were the warning beacons on the sixty foot mast on the front of the ship. For a moment there was complete darkness. The invaders stood in the inky blackness, unafraid. Patient.

 

Then the emergency lights in the bridge came on, white and glaring. The mast beacon flared back to life, powered by its dedicated emergency generator.

 

The two bridge occupants stood waiting, saying nothing, and the commander counted from fifteen down to three before the emergency lights on the bridge also died. Once more, blackness. Just as promised, and expected.

 

He nodded and even grinned a little. Freaking flawless. And to think his army CO had once called him a piece of shit loser. He permitted the smile for a second, then erased it. He schooled his face back to a mask of professionalism.

 

"Team Three here. The fore guard is keeping low. You want us to keep after him?" The man on the other end asked. The leader nodded as he spoke. The man might be trained...or just lucky.

 

"Yes." The guard wasn’t going to be causing any trouble if he was busy evading Team Three. The American commander didn’t want any problems. Diligence, combined with the operation’s extensive planning, meant there would be no surprises.

 

He hated surprises. There were, he had learned, no good ones.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

"Blood-y hell," said the man falling through the night sky. He hated surprises. Plummeting earthward a half mile above the planet, with a black, cloud-swollen sky above and black ocean underneath, the only thing he could see was the distant glimmer of the container ship’s lights. Then the ship lights went out. With the protective helmet covering his head it was oddly quiet, like being in a dark room all alone. Only he was falling far to fast for comfort.

 

"Stony, we’ve got a problem." He didn't add "a hell of a problem", but he thought it. Even as he spoke into the radio he saw the lights reappear and flicker, then dissolve to leave just a single red beacon. He could see it if he strained. A faint red dot that tried to fade out even as he fixed on it. It wasn't enough. He and his team needed more to see that they all go on board safely. He swore silently as he waited the split second for a response.

 

"Go ahead, Phoenix One." said the efficient female voice in his headset. Even amplified above the rush of the wind, she sounded cool and calm. He appreciated that. No use in both of them panicking. It was enough that one of them was about to be hysterical. Might as well be him.

 

"The ship just lost power," he reported, feeling the tingle that always warned him when a mission was about to go cock-up. "Her emergency lights came and went. All’s that is left is the beacon." A tiny wee beacon in the ink black night. Damn. Nothing to give him a view of the deck. The view he needed.

 

"The ship’s plans say the beacon has an emergency generator independent of other ship power grids," she said calmly. As if telling him to look harder for the light that was sure to be there. Only it was not. Just blackness. Broken by a minute red glimmer.

 

"Come and gone," he assured her. "And that emergency beacon will get hit soon enough," the man called Phoenix One observed in a distinctly British accent. He was pretty sure of that. But even if it didn't, he was in a world of hurt.

 

"Phoenix Five here," came a reply. "The screws stopped." And indeed they had. He listened to utter silence. No propulsion. A change in the trajectory. Bloody....he tried to see the hulk below. Even with his better than perfect twenty-fifteen vision it was hopeless.

 

"Well, we won't even have that going for us," Phoenix One replied. It occurred to him it was not be a good thing at all. Calm and steady, he reminded himself. Chin up, and stiff upper lip, the former SAS commando thought. They had all been in tighter situations than this and made it through.

 

"Phoenix Five, how’s your targeting?" He asked mildly. Hoping for a fragment of good news. It was not to be.

 

"Shot to hell. I am trying to rework it." Came the terse reply. "I didn't calculate on a slowing target."

 

Phoenix One swore again and craned his neck to look down between his feet. He couldn’t see Phoenix Five, of course. The man was a way out of visual range, even now, with the primordial blackness all around. Which wasn't good. He was in back, and he was the one in the most trouble. He was the one who stood the best chance of overshooting, slamming into the side of the ship, ending in the water dead or unconscious.

 

"Can you still make it to the boat?" Came the concerned voice of his teammate echoing his own thought with the precision and familiarity of the years they had worked side by side. The man knew him, maybe better than anyone else ever had.

 

"I’m going to try." Phoenix Five said. Phoenix heard the absence of false reassurance and knew Five wasn't all that sure it was possible to make his objective. His throat knotted. His tone was deliberately casual.

 

"Don’t kill yourself in the process." One shot back. No kidding, the other man thought. Ghod damn it.

 

"I’m going to try." He repeated. Then silently, "I am really, really going to try." And for a second he heard the breath of his teammate in his ear. Then he shut the sound out and concentrated on the problem at hand. No one could help him, he was alone in the fight to get himself on board the ship.

 

Phoenix One attempted to fix the odds before they started. They made the jump when and where Phoenix Five estimated they had the best chance of hitting the moving target that was the Korean container ship Eun-Pyo. That had changed. The target was not moving at a steady rate. It was slowing fast, it's bulk dragging in the water.

 

The trick was to get all five commandos onto a moving ship in the dark without killing any of them. Or breaking them into too many pieces to be of any use. Phoenix Five was the man with the best experience, so he was the natural choice to lead the insertion and to make the critical dark touchdown to set up markers for the others to follow. Phoenix Five was the critical link. And now he was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

 

Phoenix Five had stepped out of the aircraft well ahead of the others, to give him the time he needed to set those markers. He had done the same a hundred times before, as easy as stepping off a porch. The jump was riskiest for him. There was no room for deviation, and now they had a deviation. A big one. And one other factor, the loss of light, compounded the ships loss of engines.

 

Phoenix One had no way of even guessing the outcome, let alone making odds. "No bullshit, Phoenix Five—can you make it or not?" He needed to know if he was going to have to rescue the man, his man, from the Pacific. No man on his team was expendable. Each life as precious to him as his own. And this man...the most precious of all.

 

"It’s going to be close." Came the tight, muttered reply. The team leader gritted his teeth.

 

"That is not a precise answer." Phoenix One complained. He felt his anxiety rise, his adrenaline rush preparing him to respond, to act.

 

"That is as precise as I can get, Phoenix One." The other man said. Phoenix One allowed himself to close his eyes for a split second before he spoke again. "Understood."

 

"How is our arrangement, Phoenix Four?" He radioed. The last commando to make the jump was keeping an eye on their grouping during the descent. He was watching for problems and reasons just like the ones that were developing.

 

"We are sticking close together, Phoenix One." Phoenix Four told him succinctly, deep voice controlled, revealing nothing.

 

"Okay, talk to me, Phoenix Five." Phoenix One returned to the most pressing problem.

 

"We’ll open up in few seconds," Phoenix Five replied. Anyone eavesdropping on the encrypted radio exchange would have been confused to hear an accent that didn’t match that of the man called Phoenix One. In fact it was pure Texas. The two men had been born half a world apart. And should perhaps, have had no chance of meeting. But they had met, and were now part of the special Stony Man team called Phoenix Force. Five men fighting the evils of the world.

 

Leading the free-fall, Thomas Jackson Hawkins, Phoenix Five, was the youngest of the five team members. That didn’t mean he wasn’t an extremely competent commando, and he brought skydiving expertise that started with a set of paratrooper wings and a stint in Airborne. He knew his job inside and out. And he knew this little problem had to be overcome or he was in serious trouble. They all were.

 

He had been on so many jumps he couldn’t keep track, but this one would stick in his memory. Hawkins eyed his altimeter and squinted into the blackness of the vast Pacific Ocean with it's one tiny dot of illumination. He was diving through the atmosphere, trying to propel his body toward the tiny beacon almost through sheer power of will and wanting. The ship was getting closer, but not close enough. He had timed the jump to hit the ship where it would have been if it had maintained it's chugging pace through the South Pacific Ocean. When the engine stopped, the ship slowed quickly, and Hawkins found himself fighting for distance. He not only had to reach the ship, he had to reach the aft end to touch down with the best chances of remaining unseen by the Tangos who undoubtedly were already on the ship.

 

Above him, the others waited for his signal. They would deploy at the same time and their extra few thousand feet of slow descent would allow them to steer themselves to the vessel—but only if they had a good marker to aim for.

 

Hawkins couldn’t fail. If he failed he would die. His teammates would die or be injured. And the mission would fail. Phoenix Force did not intend to fail.

 

He ignored the altimeter when the ship got close, tuning it out with the expertise gained in a thousand jumps. This one was too hairy to trust instruments. He’d have to go on instinct or they’d never hit their target. This would be a good time to discover psychic abilities. He had to feel the boat and the landing. Crap, he had to use 'the force' just like Luke Skywalker.

 

His altimeter didn’t ignore him. It started its shrill beep in his headphones as the planet approached. It wouldn’t force his chute to deploy, unlike most free-fall packs, but it's warning was shrill. And all the others were hearing it, too. It raised everyone's level of adrenaline as the listened. It tore through a man's composure like a combat knife through a soft belly.

 

The beep became faster and louder. It was meant to warn of impending disaster. TJ felt every ounce of the warning elevating his blood pressure, his skin contracting, unwillingly expecting to smack into the side of Eun-Pyo's unforgiving hull. Tightening his muscles. Dilating his pupils. Preparing him to react. The air was like the roaring of monstrous flames even through the protective helmet. Hawkins watched the red beacon grow.

 

The beep became a piercing electronic scream. He tuned it out. His teammate did not.

 

Phoenix One radioed, "Uh, Phoenix Five…?" The faintest tinge of concern and anxiety in the voice. He listened to it, internalized it's timbre, in case it was the last time he would hear it.

 

Phoenix Five cut him off. "Deploy in five, four, three, two, one." He instructed crisply, half his mind on his fellow commandos. Half his heart with one of them. They were all his brothers in arms, one was more.

 

Hawkins pulled his release and felt his rushing fall stop with an abrupt jerk, and then he was gliding, the wind dying to a rush. He steered the invisible black parafoil into a controlled dive just as the beacon dimmed and disappeared. He was flying in blackness. He had nothing to hold onto. He needed something, anything. He had only prayer.

 

Waiting for the end of his flight. An end that could mean success. Or disaster.


	2. Part 2

T. J. Hawkins remembered his father and his father's love for caves and spelunking. When he was a child his father often took him to caves and dark spaces just to give him the experience of the almost preternatural cool quiet those places had. The darkness, the absolute blackness of those underground spaces was something the adult T.J. remembered vividly. At those times, in those places the darkness was a weight that could be felt.

 

He was enveloped in that same kind of soft, velvet, absolutely impenetrable darkness now. Only the rush of air past him was different, movement instead of eerie stillness. Now as then panicking could kill him. He drew in a breath, almost feeling the inky blackness filling him as if it had actual mass and thickness, then he purposely put it out of his mind. Unaided sight was currently of no use to him. He had to concentrate on the other senses and his instruments.

 

He flipped the night-vision goggles into place as he simultaneously snapped on the altimeter display. Below him he saw in stark green bulk, the container ship. His depth perception was unreliable. He could not count on how far or near the ship appeared to him through the goggles. His altimeter gave him additional information, and he rapidly began calculating the essentials to reach a position fix. With luck he would be able to land near the rear containers, and be undetected.

 

He was suddenly happy he had chosen to use older and more familiar equipment, the operation of which was instinctual and automatic leaving much of his attention free for thinking and assessing the problematic landing coming up. He’d decided maneuverability was key and his executive decision had forced Phoenix One to cull the equipment load. But it now proved to have been the right decision. With the heavier duty chutes, Phoenix Force would have been destined for an unpleasant and unplanned water landing.

 

When he was close enough he switched from altimeter to a handheld LIDAIR device. The Light Detection And Ranging laser allowed him to determine his distance and rate of approach to whatever target he aimed at. He directed the laser-measurement device at the top of the rear container.

 

It took every ounce of strength he had to coax the chute with his body dangling underneath, up over the front end of the vessel. He literally felt the nearness of the containers barely under his feet as he eked his way over. He steered to the right, hoping his darting glances would be sufficient to keep him from ramming an unexpected, elevated container. He needed every ounce of the rest of his attention to steer and maneuver. He was certain he could have, with only the slightest slacking of his effort at elevation, put his feet down on the container tops. And have two broken legs as a result. He flew past the castel, silent and dark, unnoticed, he hoped.

 

The back of the ship was not as long as the front. He had to work fast, not fall into the trap of believing he had the same amount of time to traverse it as it took to cover the front.

 

Hawkins urged the canopy into a fast dive and found himself swinging recklessly toward the gray outlines of a deck-stacked container. He was a heartbeat away from slamming into a steel wall at highway speeds when he dragged on the guide ropes to create a sudden steep ascent, a sort of braking move. The harness cut into him sharply, like taking a kick from a bull. He grunted, unable not to.

 

Hawkins watched the sudden approach of the corner of a container and twisted hard, yanking a guideline with all his weight. The spastic movement maneuvered him away from the container—but not far enough. The steel corner slammed into his side as he twisted back to center. Then he plummeted , catching the steel surface of the container top, rolling and using the momentum to propel himself onto his feet. He fought for balance on the edge of the container, trusting the drag of the para-foil to prevent him from going over.

 

Then he forced himself to draw in a breath of air into very unwilling lungs. For an instant as he stepped forward he thought he was going to lose consciousness. His vision grew spotty. Only his will kept him from crumpling to the metal top of the container and laying there, letting waves of pain and agony take him over. But that wasn't going to happen. It couldn't. He had to set out the flares and clear the area for the rest of his Phoenix Force teammates. And unless he was dead, he would get the job done.

 

With an effort he began balling up the collapsed para-foil, quick-disconnecting the lines, then he stooped and snatched a plastic sphere, as big as a golf ball, out of the pocket on his front thigh. He squeezed it hard to crack the twin plastic capsules inside, shook it to mix the contents and quickly rolled it toward the far end of the container. Nothing happened.

 

At least nothing Hawkins could see until he snapped the thermal eyepiece back into place.

 

Inside the sphere, the broken capsules mixed and reacted, spewing a heavy cloud of black, hot particles through the sphere’s perforated wall. The particles settled to create a half-inch-deep layer of hot fog within the lip of the container roof. The hope was no one would be wearing expensive night vision goggles on a container ship, and no one would be looking down at the top of the container if they were.

 

Hawkins, having already made a quick visual recon of the aft end of the ship with his own light enhancing goggles, and finding it devoid of life, stepped onto the top of the adjoining container. He moved with careful, precise steps, not letting himself slow down. Time was critical to the safety of the rest of the team. He had to stretch out in order to cross from one container to the next.

 

That was the moment the dull ache above his hip became a flash of white-hot pain. He grunted and his foot landed poorly on the container roof, even louder than his para-foil touchdown. He found himself on his hands and knees, every inhalation an agony. Again his vision dimmed. He forced himself to even out his panting rrespirations not to let the pain take him over, make his breath too fast. He had to do it. He had to get the other markers in place. He refused to fail.

 

Hawkins lambasted himself, pushing himself to toss another sphere and forcing his mind through the mental calculations of his deployment time. Had he been quick enough? He stayed rock still, finally getting his breath under control, afraid to move until it was, not knowing how hurt he was.

 

"Phoenix One here. Good work, T.J. Coming in on port-side runway." He heard the voice he needed to so urgently. Thank Ghod. His team and it's leader were going to touch down any moment.

 

Hawkins pushed himself to his feet with trembling arms and monitored the landing. The Phoenix Force leader came in fast but on target; he slowed during his last few seconds until he could touchdown on the container top in a controlled jog. Out of his bare eye Hawkins saw only the fleeting shadow of a dark figure, but through his thermal lens he had a clear view of the man making a near-perfect landing, sending up swirling clouds of brilliant particles with each step. The hot fog was already settling by the time David McCarter wadded his para-foil into a tight ball and abandoned it in the corner of the container roof.

 

"Cal, how’s our spacing?" Hawkins radioed. He sounded strained, and he hoped the electronic transmission would mask it. He didn't want anyone's mind on anything but the landing. They couldn't risk distractions.

 

"About perfect," Phoenix Four replied. "How are you, Hawk?" He was the medic with the most combat medical training on the team. Hawkins shook his head. He should have known better.

 

There was no fooling these guys. Already McCarter was coming to his side. Before McCarter could start the mother-hen routine, Hawkins reported, "I raised a racket. Watch for signs of alert."

 

McCarter paused only long enough to touch T.J.'s clenched jaw with his long, gloved fingers, their eyes meeting, each man with one eye covered one not, then he went on the prowl around the container edges, scanning the ship for movement, as Hawkins monitored the incoming commandos, who touched down one after the other within two minutes of himself. Precision timing as always.

 

The Phoenix Force leader was keeping a wary eye on the faint glimmer of the bridge windows. His thermal imaging showed him the head and shoulders of a man standing there, warm in the open window. Probably one of the boarders, therefore quite possibly equipped with his own night-vision system. All the man had to do was make a quick look over his shoulder to discover the intruders.

 

With a hand gesture he sent them crawling over the back end of the container on a rappel line. The Phoenix Force commander was the last to go over. The man on the bridge had not moved a muscle. McCarter’s second concern was the markers. The hot fog devices, custom made by the Stony Man Farm armory, had enabled this insertion, but at a risk. That risk was almost gone as the temperature of the chemical mist approached ambient and the glow faded on his thermal-imaging LCD.

 

His third concern was his youngest team member. Hawkins was hurt and the wound wasn’t obvious. No matter how bad it really was, Hawkins would say something like, "I’ve had armadillo bites worse’n this." But Phoenix One knew the man better. He would go until he dropped, refusing to let his team down. But it was also up to the team not to let him take an unnecessary risk if it might be avoided.

 

Even after many missions together, McCarter still couldn’t wade though the Texas-sized bullshit when Hawkins started shoveling it. He had to rely on instinct. And instinct was telling him Hawk was hurt.

 

Two of the commandos were guarding the possible approaches while Hawkins endured a quick examination from Calvin James, Phoenix Four. T.J. didn't protest, that was a waste of time. He let the other man look and probe with rapid efficiency.

 

James was a tall, lanky black man who sported a pencil thin mustache and close cropped hair. If you didn’t know him, you would say he looked too neat and too thin to fit into ex-SEAL James was a highly effective warrior, not to mention a skilled field medic. He only looked like he belonged in a boardroom in a thousand dollar suit.

 

"How bad?" McCarter asked.

 

"No way to tell," James replied. "Think he might have cracked his pelvis. But he is on his feet, walking."

 

"T.J., be straight, mate. How do you feel?" David Mc Carter fixed the young man with his gaze.

 

Hawkins looked him square in the face and said, "I feel like my guts are busted." A fine layer of sweat dotted his cammo'd face.

 

McCarter wanted to shout something profane. How bad did it have to be for Hawkins to actually admit he was in pain? "Stony One, we’re down," McCarter said into the radio. "Five was hurt during the landing."

 

"Phoenix Four here," James said into the radio. "T.J. took blunt force trauma to the middle right abdomen and hip."

 

"David?" for the first time the emotion showed in the voice of the mission controller. She knew the team commander was about to make a hard decision. They all knew how McCarter felt about every member of the team, but also that T.J. was that much more to him.

 

But there was no decision to make, really. The mission had to proceed and for very practical reasons. The team was on the ship. The ship and everyone on it would be destroyed if they didn’t stop it.

 

There was another option, of course; jump into the ocean, deploy the emergency floatation devices and radio for a pickup. Hawkins could be air-lifted by Medevac to the nearest Navy doctor. But then the ship’s crew would have no hope of survival if the Intel was true.

 

"Patch him into the doc, Stony One," McCarter radioed. "Keep me posted."

 

"Affirmative."

 

"T.J.," McCarter said.

 

"Yeah?" Hawkins' forehead shone with sweat.

 

"No sleeping on the job." The Briton said, his voice calm and even.

 

"Understood."

 

McCarter moved to one of the figures standing guard at the corner of the container.

 

"Anything?" McCarter whispered.

 

Rafael Encizo didn’t turn away from his watch. "Nothing. We will watch him." He added the last in a low whisper, so only David would hear him as he put a finger on the throat mike, muffling transmission.

 

Encizo was Cuban-born, although his light brown complexion was now hidden under streaks of battle cosmetics. His short cropped, once black hair was now grizzled. His face slightly squared, hinting strongly of some native North American Indian ancestry.

 

The strong forehead, combined with the muscular shoulders and arms gave him a look that some people interpreted as slow, both physically and intellectually. He wasn’t. Under the bulk were a cat’s quick reflexes and hunting instincts, and a mind as sharp as the cat’s claws.

 

"We’re going ahead as planned, but T.J.’s gonna sit this one out," McCarter said. It was his reply to the comment Rafael had given.

 

"His loss. Cal and I can handle it." Rafael's response showed he understood. Phoenix Five was hurt, bad. He couldn't be expected to fight, and backup was not to be presumed, either.

 

"All right," McCarter said. "Let’s move out."

 

Calvin James and Rafael Encizo moved along the part rail of the container ship, needing no discussion. They had studied the vessel’s schematics, so they were confident in their position, but more important they had the confidence that came with having fought side by side for years. They knew each other more intimately than mother and child. When fighting they were capable of acting like two bodies with one mind.

 

With one eye covered by a thermal lens and the other bare, Encizo watched though the narrow gaps between the containers and glared into every shadow and niche that could hide a person. By the time they reached the bridge castle, the silence was thick.

 

Encizo brought them to a halt before they reached the dock-level doors into the castel, pointing out the pair of human shapes sprawled against the rail behind a plank davit. A quick check confirmed they were corpses. The Korean crew. One of them sprawled on top of an unfired hunting rifle.

 

They had armed themselves against just such and attack, but these were merchant mariners, not soldiers. They weren’t trained to defend themselves. They'd not had the slightest chance of winning.

 

They hadn’t slowed the intruders, let alone challenged them.

 

 

 

 

The bridge castel was essentially a five story building built one third of the way from the back end of the container ship. The bridge dominated the top floor, windowed on all sides for visibility in all directions. On lower floors would be found radar and communications gear, crew and officer quarters, galley, lounge maybe even an exercise room. Every function and piece of equipment that could be packed into the bridge castel freed up cargo space elsewhere, and maximizing cargo space was the whole purpose of a ship like the Eun-Pyo.

 

When Encizo put his hand to the door and listened, he heard nothing.

 

It was bizarre. Too dark, and too quiet. On a ship like this it was unnatural not to feel the hum of distant engines and generators. But the deck was dead. She had drifted to a stop and she was too big to rock gently in the waves of a calm sea. The wind was motionless, and even under the oppressive mantle of the clouds it was above ninety degrees. The effect was unnatural.

 

"Phoenix Two," Encizo announced quietly into his headgear microphone, hardly louder than a thought. "We’re at the wheelhouse door. We’re going in."

 

Encizo swung the door and Calvin James stepped inside, sweeping the room with the business end of the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3.

 

The room was empty. The entryway had storage for foul-weather gear and portable tools. Beyond it was a spotless galley. Breakfast preparations hadn’t yet started. An orange light glowed on a coffee urn bolted to the stainless steel counter, but the bitter smell told them it was hours old, acrid and burnt.

 

A recreation room across the hall was dark and empty. Encizo put the backs of his fingers on the cabinet of the wide-screen TV, finding no residual warmth.

 

One floor up they found three rooms for officers and two dorm-like crews quarters. Their flashlights illuminated some unmade bunks, while the bedclothes on other bunks were so neatly made Encizo was sure they would pass the quarter test. The captain of the Eun-Pyo ran a tight ship.

 

Well he used to. The captain was probably dead.

 

"Phoenix two, find any crew?" McCarter prodded over the radio.

 

"Not a soul," Encizo reported. "The wheelhouse is deserted up to the second floor."

 

"Watch your step," McCarter replied. "You’ve got at least one man on the bridge, unless he’s left in the last few minutes. I spotted him when we landed."

 

James and Encizo ascended again, emerging into the dark, silent upper floor. Encizo covered the man at the window while James swept the bridge and the adjoining equipment room. In seconds James was back at his side. He and Encizo watched the man, who stood staring out through the open windows into the silent black night.

 

The Cuban lowered his weapon.

 

James gave him a sidelong glance. The question was asked silently and Encizo answered silently, flipping on the flashlight to show James the man who stood watch on the bridge of the container ship.

 

 

 

 

"Stony Two. The wheelhouse is clear."

 

McCarter pulled into the shadows at the starboard rail, glancing up at the bridge windows fifty feet above him. The commando at his side joined him.

 

"What about my sighting?" McCarter demanded.

 

"He’s still here," Encizo reported.

 

Gary Manning watched the interesting thermal imaging display of McCarter compressing the flesh of his forehead into a high contrast frown.

 

"He got it right between the eyes," Encizo added. "Looks like sixty, seventy percent of his skull mass went out the front of the bridge. They propped him up at the window."

 

Gary Manning frowned, too. That meant the invaders had considered the possibility of others needed to be distracted. The question was...were they anticipating crew...or someone like Phoenix Force.

 

"Any clue why they put him there?" McCarter asked. They didn't discuss the obvious, that they had been set up.

 

"For laughs?" James suggested.

 

"To draw out the crew," Manning said, feeling more and more confident of the fact the longer they were left on the bridge without an attack. "Some sailor is in hiding and looks up and sees the captain or mate standing on the bridge as if nothing is wrong, maybe he’ll think the crisis was a false alarm."

 

He’d have to be bloody stupid to go barging into the bridge castel as if nothing’s happening," McCarter replied.

 

"Maybe all he has to do is make an approach across the deck to spring the trap," Manning suggested. "They aren't soldiers, they are merchant crew."

 

"That’s right, Phoenix One," James added on the radio. "Our man here would be visible from anywhere on the deck level aft of the wheelhouse. Could be they have an ambush in place."

 

McCarter stared into the blackness and then nodded, deciding the possibility made sense. It made no difference that Phoenix Force hadn't triggered an ambush. They were skilled enough not to have been detected. Manning thought so, too, even if he wasn’t sure why the intruders would go to the trouble after they’d already had the ship under control.

 

"Okay, we’ve spotted them," James reported from his elevated vantage point on the castel. "Two nests of two, showing up on thermal. They’ve got radios on their belts. Maybe we can take them down before they get word to their friends below-decks."

 

"Rafe, what can you do from up there?" McCarter asked.

 

"I’m not equipped for sniping, but Cal and I might take down the nearest pair," Encizo said.

 

"What’s ‘might’ mean, mate?" McCarter asked. He didn't like such uncertain terms. It wasn't often his men used them.

 

"It means I’m not making promises." Rafael told him, patiently, knowing the leader needed to ask these questions.

 

"What is your confidence level?" Phoenix One persisted.

 

"In taking out the nearest pair? High. It’s the behind-the-curtain actors who’re the worry." If they had not seen all the intruders, if they surprised one or two on the way.

 

McCarter issued his instructions, then he and Manning waited. They heard brief dual bursts that originated from the bridge above them, then shouts from the deck.

 

Two figures emerged from the shadows, sprinting in their direction while keeping a close eye on the bridge above. One of them dropped before his third step. His companion didn’t look back until he had flattened against the wheelhouse in the darkness, breathing hard and snatching at the radio in his belt.

 

He never saw the hand that came out of the darkness to snatch the radio. But he was trained and he was fast, and he made exactly the right move, stepping away and raising the mini-Uzi in a single fluid motion.

 

Manning was faster and stayed close enough to land a palm against the man’s skull, sending it into the steel wall with a resounding crack, lucky for Manning the man's helmet wasn't a good one. The mini-Uzi clattered to the deck and its owner slumped beside it. Manning had the man trussed in plastic handcuffs in seconds.

 

The figure who had fallen on the deck was moving his arms and legs mindlessly but slowly. McCarter didn’t approach, but glared into the blackness, looking for trouble.

 

Manning kept one thermal lens on the wounded man, now in the middle of a lake of warm but cooling liquid. The wounded man’s head hit the deck with a heavy sound, but his hand still moved, groping for his belt.

 

He managed to extract the radio from its hook, his hand falling with it to the deck, the remainder of his body limp. It was as if the man were already dead except for the one animated limb. The hand with the radio dragged itself through the expanding pool of warm liquid, leaving cooling streaks in it’s wake.

 

Manning lined up his handgun. He might have to shoot, and he was ready to do so. But every shot gave the enemy information. If it wasn't necessary then he wouldn't risk it.

 

He never had to use his gun. The arm’s fading strength was only enough to bring the radio to the man’s face before his mouth opened and his life issued out in a long groan.

 

"Come in." The tiny buzz of the voice was audible even to Manning and McCarter, five paces away. "Who is this?" The two Phoenix Commandos exchanged a look.

 

McCarter made a movement and Manning saw two more shadows stirring in the darkness. One was talking. As they stepped around the end of the rows of containers the words became audible.

 

"So maybe one of the crew went rogue." The first voice was saying, completely unaware of the danger he was in.

 

"None of these bastards have the balls to fight back," second voice said. "Some one probably wasn't looking where he was going. Slipped."

 

"I don’t think—" The first man said, his words died in his throat when he almost tripped over the corpse and his companion stumbled into him.

 

"What the fuck, man?" The voice was high pitched as they recognized one of their own uniforms, rather than a crew member.

 

The first man didn’t answer but flipped on a penlight. The tiny beam was brilliant in the pervasive darkness, and the gunners instantly found themselves standing in a lake of blood, in which lay the slack-jawed cadaver.

 

"Jesus! That’s Worth!"

 

 

"Shut the fuck up," his companion ordered, snatching his radio from his belt as he flipped off the penlight. "Back the fuck up!" He hissed urgently to the man blocking the exit.

 

Manning triggered a 3-round burst from the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3 sub-machine gun and through the factory installed suppressor came a sound like ripping of heavy fabric. The radio and the hand that held it disintegrated, sending the radio man stumbling away. His companion reacted with a lightning quick move that brought his Uzi toward the source of the shots. Manning triggered another 3-round burst that cut open his chest at the same instant a burst of fire chopped into him from above. His legs folded and he flopped alongside his companion.

 

"Phoenix Two, anybody else?" McCarter demanded the instant the gunfire stopped.

 

"It looks clear," Encizo answered, eyes restlessly scanning for any sign of more opponents.

 

"Cover us," McCarter ordered, then said to Manning, "Come on."

 

They sprinted the distance between themselves and the wounded man, already on the verge of hyperventilating as he stared in shock at the ruined mass at the end of his wrist. His wide eyes rolled up at them and he recognized the enemy at the last second. He had to let go of his wrist to snatch at the shoulder holstered handgun with his good hand, but he was already weak from blood loss, and McCarter removed the weapon from his fingers before he could make it work. The Phoenix Force leader tightened a plastic handcuff loop on the wounded hand as an impromptu tourniquet, securing the good wrist alongside it. He cuffed the man’s ankles for good measure.

 

One Hand struggled briefly and rolled his eyes helplessly as his shallow breathing became more rapid. McCarter slapped the side of his face hard enough to snap him out of it momentarily.

 

"Listen to me, mate. You struggle any more and you’ll rip off the cuff. Then you’ll bleed to death. Understand? It’s keeping you alive. I don't care one way or the other. Got it?" And he didn't. The man was a member of a terrorist attack on a ship. He had probably killed some of the crew without blinking. Innocents. Phoenix One wouldn't hesitate to kill him, or let him die if it became necessary.

 

The man nodded. His eyes huge. His pale lips pressed tightly together, pain etched on his features as the shock of the injury wore off.

 

"How many of your man are above-deck?" Mc Carter asked.

 

The wounded man looked confused. "There were six of us."

 

"How many below?"

 

"You gotta get me off the boat. It’s going down." The man begged. Phoenix One believed him. The boat was going to sink. Unless they stopped it.

 

"Stop wasting time. Answer the question. How many more?" He growled out.

 

"Ten more down below. You gotta take me!"

 

"We’ll try to catch you on the way back." Manning said coldly.

 

McCarter radioed his upstairs pair. "Rafe, Cal, we’ve still got two shooters sharing the deck with us. Any sign of them?"

 

"Maybe," James reported. "I think I saw somebody moving between the containers, but it was way up front. Too far to be sure."

 

"We’ve got to get below-decks in a hurry," McCarter said. "I hate to leave a pair of blokes unaccounted for, but we don’t have time to flush them out."

 

"Understood," James replied. "we’re on our way down."

 

"Phoenix Five, what’s your status?"

 

"Just sittin’ here with my thumb up my ass," Hawkins reported. His voice was bland, neutral. He hated being outside of the action, but every beat of his heart was driving needles of pain through his side.

 

"Remove the thumb from your arse and use it to hold on to your weapon. We’re leaving you up here on your own. You’re our only defense." Mc Carter made the snap decision. He hated to risk it, to take any chance of Hawk having to fight, but he needed every one of his men.

 

"I’m tucked away like a carcass in a gator meat locker. Nobody’s getting at me." T.J. heard and understood the tone. The unspoken need. Mc carter needed reassurance, though he wouldn't ask for it.

 

"Then stay there." The faint tone of relief warmed Hawkins. He allowed himself a grimacing smile, settling in to watch.

 

As the shadowy, silent shapes of James and Encizo drifted into visibility at the base of the bridge castel, McCarter made a quick evaluation of the probe so far. It was proceeding as well as could be expected, excepting Hawkins’ injury, which was bad enough.

 

He hadn’t much of an idea what they would be dealing with when they got below. They didn’t know who, or why, or even how. All McCarter knew was that the goal was critical sabotage. He wasn’t happy to be leading his team into this mess with so little intelligence.

 

But it was far too late for misgivings.

 

With a jerk of his head McCarter ushered his teammates to the hatch and led the way down.


End file.
